


come the war

by ataxophilia



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becket gives him a long look, like he’s trying to work something out, and Chuck wants to tell him that it’s just a drink, it’s not some puzzle that needs to be worked out, Chuck’s not some fucking puzzle for him to solve, not tonight, at least. Tonight he’s just drunk and trying not to think about tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come the war

**Author's Note:**

> The night before the final drop. 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

The bar is supposed to be empty.

That’s why Chuck is there. It was left, thanks to some unspoken rule probably put into place by the Cherno team, for the pilots when they were actually almost enough to be proud of, instead of two teams that barely live up to the word, what with his father out of commission and the Gipsy team being, well, Becket and Mori. The techs still leave it alone, out of respect, Chuck guesses. Or habit.

Either way, with the Russians and the triplets KIA, the bar is supposed to be Chuck’s domain. Mori has never set foot in any on-base bar, not once in all the years Chuck has known her, and he doesn’t peg Becket as the kind to do his last-night drinking anywhere but his bed or Gipsy’s bay. Pilots like Becket place sentimental value on nights like this, but Chuck - Chuck was raised his father’s son, and Hercules Hansen did most of his mourning in base bars, after his wife died.

Getting pissed alone in the honorary pilot bar is the most reasonable option, Chuck figures, when he spent his formative years watching his father do the same thing. It’s not exactly an awful plan. He could be doing worse - could be roaming the deserted streets of Hong Kong, looking for one of the working girls, or boys, he’s not picky anymore, who he’s sure will have stuck around just in case. There are always desperate men, even at the world’s end.

He’s finishing off his fifth glass of something clear and unlabelled, foul tasting but strong enough to get his vision blurring, when Becket walks in.

Becket looks visibly surprised - an open book, Chuck’s thought that before, vicious and barbed as though it’s a goddamn sin - and in some bleary part of his mind he realises Becket must have followed the same logic that he did himself when he marched to the pilot’s bar. Chuck would say something, something cutting and snarky, because that’s who he is, but his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, so he just stares blankly until Becket swallows, says, “Chuck.”

"Raleigh," he replies, emphasis on the wrong part of the word, still a shit even with unidentified spirits in him. 

The silence that follows hangs awkwardly in the air between them. Becket doesn’t move any further into the bar, but he doesn’t walk out either, and Chuck doesn’t know which one he’d rather, not anymore, just that the stilted way they’re watching each other is throwing him off balance. “You drinking or not?” he asks, leaning across the bar to grab another glass before twisting and brandishing it at Becket. It’s not exactly a friendly invitation, but it’s Chuck making an effort, and Becket - well, Becket seems to realise that much, because he only hesitates for a second or two before shuffling over to take the glass.

Chuck refills his own cup and passes the bottle over, watching as Becket studies the liquid and then sniffs bravely at it. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters, pulling a face, and Chuck snorts. “What is this?”

"Dunno," Chuck tells him, holding his own glass up to peer at the drink inside. "Burns like a motherfucker on the way down, but it does the job."

Becket gives him a long look, like he’s trying to work something out, and Chuck wants to tell him that it’s just a drink, it’s not some puzzle that needs to be worked out, Chuck’s not some fucking puzzle for him to solve, not tonight, at least. Tonight he’s just drunk and trying not to think about tomorrow, and now that Becket is here he thinks he’d rather not be alone while he’s doing it. Becket looks away just as Chuck starts thinking he’ll implode under the weight of his stare, pours his own drink, knocks it straight back.

Chuck whistles sharply through his teeth, and Becket grins just as sharp, and for a moment Chuck could be drinking with anyone, with the techs back home in Sydney. “Not bad,” he says - adds, “Ray,” because he’s never been able to reach out a hand without a knife hidden in the palm, because tonight with Becket is no different to any other time with Becket, not even if they’ll both be dead this time tomorrow.

Becket, to his credit, doesn’t even baulk at the nickname, just dips his head in acknowledgement and pours out another glassful of the stuff. “You were right,” he tells Chuck. “Like a motherfucker.” It makes Chuck laugh, makes him roar with it like he hasn’t since he arrived in Hong Kong - whole body thrown into it, head back and stomach aching. It’s the alcohol, he knows, more than anything. The alcohol and the look on Becket’s face, the way he unconsciously tried to mimic Chuck’s accent on the words. The ridiculousness of the two of them making small talk in a haunted bar in the shatterdome, hours away from saving the world.

When he stops, his breathing gone heavy, Becket is watching him with that look again, curious and determined, like he wants to pick apart all the pieces of Chuck and learn them like a science lesson. “What?” Chuck says, sliding back onto the defensive as easy as anything, instinct making his voice into a blade and a shield all at once.

There’s a beat where Becket doesn’t say anything, just keep staring, and Chuck feels himself getting riled up, and then Becket cocks his head a little and says, “Aren’t you scared?”

It’s not what Chuck expects, the opposite of what Chuck expects, and there’s a stream of emotions that Chuck can’t quite identify under the question, so he repeats, “What?”

Becket shrugs, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “Everyone on this base is scared shitless, but you- you don’t even look bothered. By any of this.” Chuck blinks, looks down at his drink to avoid the queer look in Becket’s eyes, like honesty and curiosity and desperation all rolled up and dipped in Becket’s own brand of concern. 

"I’m not allowed to be scared," he says, softer than he means to - he doesn’t mean to say it at all, but alcohol has always lowered his barriers, and Becket reeks of trustworthiness. Normally it sets Chuck on edge, raises his hackles - how dare Becket try and reach out to Chuck when Chuck has made it perfectly clear he’ll only bite any hands outstretched in his direction? - but the spirit is dampening his jagged parts, and he’s not sure he wants to fight, not tonight.

"Your father?" Becket guesses, and Chuck almost laughs at how transparent Becket thinks he is. 

"I drift with the bastard," he points out instead. "What’d be the point in trying to hide something like that from him?" If they were anyone else, Chuck thinks, then Becket would be right. Herc Hansen didn’t exactly promote healthy emotional expression in the base bunks that passed as home for the two of them, but once Chuck was old enough to pilot with him there was nothing that they could hide from each other. The first drift after the first time Chuck slept with a guy, his father almost swung a punch at him right in the conn-pod - only the kaiju out in the ocean held his fists, and by the time they were done they were both too battered to start a fight over it. 

The point, while valid, leaves Becket looking so lost that Chuck takes pity on him - and gives into the alcohol-fuelled urge to finally share some of this fucking angst. “I can’t be scared,” he says, “Because I’ve got a goddamn job to do, and I can’t- I can’t fail it.”

He can feel Becket’s eyes on him, steady and measuring. The words catch in his throat on the way out, bitter like a pill, but once they’re out he feels- not better, exactly, but looser. Less caged in. 

"It’s pretty fucked up, this much pressure," Becket replies, agreeing with a point that isn’t quite the same one Chuck was trying to make. "The whole world on our backs."

Chuck snorts again, swills his drink before swallowing it all down. The burn works well as a distraction, stops him from having to think about what he says next: “It’s not the fucking world, Becket. It’s the- the failure. I can’t fail. I- I can’t be a failure. I just. Can’t.”

His eyes are stinging, he realises with mute horror. His voice cracked around his words and now he’s blinking back tears, a hot, angry flush rising to his cheeks, all with fucking Raleigh Becket watching him.

But Becket - when Chuck looks up, across at him, Becket doesn’t look surprised or triumphant or even pitying. He just looks like he gets it. Chuck opens his mouth, ready to spit out something venomous, falling back into the furious little boy he’s used to being, but Becket moves before he can, leans forward to press his hand to Chuck’s shoulder.

Chuck can’t remember the last time someone touched him for anything but a fight or a handshake, and Becket’s grip is so solid, warm and heavy even through his jacket, that it’s enough to snap what little control Chuck was clinging to. 

"Fuck," he gets out through clenched teeth - "Fuck, Becket," - before he drops forward, forehead pressed into Becket’s shoulder. Becket folds his arm across Chuck’s back, holds him in place, keeps him grounded in this bar, this moment. "Fuck," he breathes, choked up with sobs he’s still too proud to let out, and Becket’s grip tightens.

"You’re a goddamn mess, kid," Becket mutters, voice low and soothing in Chuck’s ear, "But you’re the best fucking pilot in Australia, and you will not fail anyone tomorrow. Not your father, not the marshal, not the world, not yourself. Yeah?"

Chuck twists his hands into fists against Becket’s chest, screws his eyes shut tight and forces his breathing even again. “Best pilot in the whole corps, fucker,” he says, once he’s halfway confident in his ability to speak without his voice shaking, and Becket huffs a laugh, hauls Chuck upright so he can look him in the eye.

"Yeah, cause you did such a good job out there the other night," he retorts, and then stiffens right away, eyes going tight and apologetic, but Chuck has lived through harder things than being teased.

"Doesn’t count," he snaps back, jabbing his finger into Becket’s chest. "They fried Striker, the cheating bastards." And Becket - Becket, the good-natured fuck - goes soft when he laughs at that, all the lines of his body losing their tension except the hand still strong on Chuck’s back. Chuck watches, drinks it in, the way Becket’s face curls around the laugh and thinks, maybe, if the world wasn’t about to end, one way or another, maybe if they make it through tomorrow, he’ll find a way to make Becket laugh like this again and then kiss it out of his mouth, see if it tastes as sweet as it looks.

For tonight, though - for tonight it’s enough to lean into Becket’s hand, press his face back into the curve of Becket’s neck and laugh along with him, easy and true.


End file.
